


we'll be dressed in black (and you'll scream my name)

by doji_oji



Series: superomens [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Humor, Two Crowleys, vaguely crackish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-24 22:49:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10751388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doji_oji/pseuds/doji_oji
Summary: “Two Crowleys,” Dean says. “Huh.”“Oh good,” Crowley - the real Crowley, actual Crowley, the one Dean is trying not to think of as their Crowley - says, “this arsehole.”“Back at you, princess,” the other, older, balder, grumpier (something Dean didn’t think was physically possible, but the world keeps finding new and exciting ways to surprise him) Crowley growls.They’re both called Crowley. They’re both demons (technically). They’re both short, sarcastic assholes with black hair and a taste for stupidly expensive wine. That’s about where the similarities end.





	we'll be dressed in black (and you'll scream my name)

**Author's Note:**

> why have crowley fusion when you can have go!crowley and spn!crowley snarking it out
> 
> update: I now have a fic tumblr here: doji-oji.tumblr.com!

“Two Crowleys,” Dean says. “Huh.”

“Oh good,” Crowley - the real Crowley, actual Crowley, the one Dean is trying not to think of as _their_ Crowley - says, “this arsehole.”

“Back at you, princess,” the other, older, balder, grumpier (something Dean didn’t think was physically possible, but the world keeps finding new and exciting ways to surprise him) Crowley growls. 

They’re both called Crowley. They’re both demons (technically). They’re both short, sarcastic assholes with black hair and a taste for stupidly expensive wine. That’s about where the similarities end. 

“How come you never mentioned this?” Dean asks. “Demon running around with your name, that could get messy.”

“It’s not _his_ name,” Not!Crowley snarls. 

“Excuse me, _Fergus_ , I think you’ll find I got here first,” Crowley shoots back.

Dean looks at Sam and mouths _Fergus?_ Sam just shrugs.

“Actually, _Crawly_ , I think you’ll find no one gives a shit.” 

( _Crawly?_ Sam mouths. Dean makes a mental note to give Crowley shit about that later.)

Not!Crowley dramatically whips a sheaf of papers out of his pocket. “See, I’ve turned this name into a brand. Crowley, King of Hell. It’s got a nice ring to it. Alliteration. It’s memorable.” He unfolds the papers and reads aloud. “‘A survey of 2495 condemned souls found that, when asked, 88% had heard of Crowley, King of Hell, whereas less than 5% were familiar with Anthony J. Crowley.’” Not!Crowley plucks a sheet from the pile and holds it out to Crowley. 

“I _invented_ surveys, you little tart,” Crowley replies, then looks at the paper. “Is this a _copyright infringement notice?_ ” He snatches the paper out of Not!Crowley’s hand and scans it quickly. “You _patented my name?_ ”

“Being the generous soul that I am, I’ll allow you to keep using it, of course,” Not!Crowley says smugly. “For the low, low price of sixteen million dollars a month. Or, if you’d rather work a one-time payment, I’ll accept your grace as substitute.” He looks at his watch. “Well, I’ve got to run. People to kill, lives to ruin. If you want to talk, call my lawyer.” He flicks a business card at Crowley, then vanishes. 

Dean and Sam blink at each other. Then Sam says tentatively, “Uh, Crowley--”

“Not. One. Word,” Crowley hisses, in a voice that promises swift and violent death to anyone stupid enough to piss him off right now. The paper in his hand abruptly catches fire. “‘Talk to my lawyer,’” he mutters furiously. “Oh, I’ll talk to your lawyer all right, Fergusss. We’ll have a nice long _chat_.”

“Maybe we should call Aziraphale and warn him Crowley’s about to go on a rampage,” Dean mumbles out of the corner of his mouth.

“I’ll text him,” Sam mumbles back. 

“I can _hear you_ ,” Crowley snaps. The paper is now a smouldering pile of ash on the floor. 

“Well, I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?” Dean says, trying for casual and landing somewhere in the realm of strangled. “You have to change your name, big deal. It’s not the end of the world.”

Crowley fixes him with a look that could wither plant life.

“Poor choice of words, I admit,” Dean concedes hurriedly. 

“You know,” Sam says, “for what it’s worth, you’d still have a pretty good case in court. You’ve been using the name for, what, three thousand years? Sure, Crowley’s more well known, but if you can prove you were using it first, he might end up having to pay you royalties or something.”

Crowley’s eyes light up. Dean fervently wishes Sam had kept his big mouth shut.

“Sam, you’re a genius,” Crowley says. 

“Oh God,” Sam replies. 

“You are hereby employed as my legal counsel.”

“No, really, that’s okay,” Sam says. “I mean, I only did pre-law, I’m pretty sure I’m not even qualified--”

“Oh, I can forge you a degree, no problem,” Crowley says airily. Then he adds, in that voice Dean has come to learn only means trouble, “Now come on. Let’s talk business.”


End file.
